


A Season's Magic

by moth2fic



Category: Georgette Heyer, Harry Potter - Rowling, Spooks
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-25
Updated: 2007-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:31:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moth2fic/pseuds/moth2fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A crossover fantasy in the style of Georgette Heyer with duels and spies and dashing heroes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Season's Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Somebody said Spooks had few crossovers and few AUs... I hastened to fill the gaps. Possibly Harry Potter and Georgette Heyer at the same time were a step too far but I was quite pleased with the result.
> 
> No offence to the original authors is intended - this is (im)pure daydreaming.
> 
> Warning: minor character death (which is canon).
> 
> A huge thanks to Afiakate for a difficult beta job - she only knew two of the fandoms in depth and i think she was very brave..

## Act 1. An Evening's Entertainment

The earl surveyed his valet's handiwork with something close to approbation. The fellow was learning. His coat was smooth and if his cravat did not approach the intricacies of the waterfall, it was no longer anything to be ashamed of.. He smiled his guarded approval and dismissed Matthews with a nod of his head. When the man had left, taking with him the riding coat that so desperately needed attention, the earl opened his jewel box and considered.

He had been invited to a small card party, not a ball or rout, and it would not do to be too elaborate. On the other hand, he knew his fellow guests were all cronies or emulators of Mr. Brummel, and he should not disgrace himself. He tried a sapphire pin against the snowy folds of the cravat. It was large, but plainly cut. It echoed or reflected the deep blue of his eyes and he slid the point through the fabric and fastened it in place. A matching ring on his right index finger completed the picture and he picked up his gloves, ready to leave.

It was a fine night and he determined to walk the short distance to his host's house, ignoring the slight intake of breath on the part of his butler, and accepting his hat and cane from the footman who almost smiled in complicity. A likely looking lad. He must find out his name and see to it that he found promotion or at least praise.

The Earl of Carteret was always seeking to improve the lot of his staff, which was why he was currently suffering the ministrations of a footman turned valet. His previous valet had retired with a handsome pension to open a discreet establishment selling neck cloths, gloves and other such small necessities. Adam had promoted the longest serving footman to his position.

Since his countess had died he had found some solace in trying to better the lot of people within his reach. Nothing else gave him any pleasure nowadays and he didn't expect the card party to be any different in that respect. In fact, he had only accepted the invitation because Harry had so obviously wanted him to. He admired Colonel Pearce and didn't want to disappoint him. He thought briefly of his son, being brought up at his country seat by a doting nanny and Grandmama. There might be pleasure there; in a few years he would enjoy teaching the little fellow to ride and shoot. At the moment, he was too young to interest Adam's fairly rudimentary paternal feelings, and simply served to remind him of Fiona.

 

*****

 

Just before he reached the steps to Harry's small but beautifully appointed town house, he felt a tug on his sleeve and turned to face his old friend Tom Quinn. The dissolute and sulky expression on the other's handsome features saddened him. Heavy gambling and drinking had played their part in setting Tom on a downward spiral, but Adam often felt at least partly to blame, as it was his own spectacular win at cards that had started the final slide. He hoped Pearce hadn't invited the other man to an evening where he was sure the play would be deep and the drinking even deeper. Then Tom's voice, suffused with a whining note that Adam had never heard before, begged for a moment of his time. Not on the way to Harry's then. Probably hanging around in Harry's street hoping to see old friends. Adam sighed.

Tom wanted money. As a loan, of course.  
"A sure thing, old fellow. Pay you back with interest when the filly romps home."  
Taking this, correctly, to mean a bet at Newmarket, Adam shook his head and disengaged his sleeve. He was tempted to offer a position in his household, a wage instead of a precarious reliance on gambling, but he knew Tom would be offended, and that he would likely not hold the position down for long, in any case. The earl might give posts away out of charity, but he allowed his butler and his man of business to see to it that his charity was not abused.

Tom had evidently expected the reaction, and had probably suffered its like from others before Adam. He walked away, shoulders slumped, unpolished boots shuffling with a sound very like despair on the pavement.

*****

Adam dragged his thoughts away from the walking disaster he had once liked to call a friend, and walked the next few yards to the colonel's house. A footman took his hat, gloves and cane and opened the doors to the salon. This was Harry's pride and joy, furnished with card tables, small side tables and comfortable chairs, where a man could drink and play to his heart's content, far from the vapid chatter of society beauties such as Lady Evershed's daughter and the Reynolds chit, and the criticism of doyennes like the Countess of Shaw or The Honourable Theresa Phillips.

The little room, small in measurement but large in welcome and generosity of provision, was already half full. Viscount Siviter was playing a desultory hand of piquet with Baron Wells, and Harry himself was talking to the Welsh landowner, Wynn-Jones or whatever his name was. The colonel got up to greet Adam, with a broad smile. A second footman glided towards them with a tray of drinks and soon Adam was happily ensconced in one of the cushioned chairs, with a glass of good Rhenish and the hope of equally good conversation.

'I've invited Major Hunter,' Harry told him. 'He's bringing a friend, someone from the Portuguese army, I think.' Adam raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The Major's odd and enthusiastic friendships were well known. 'Can't for the life of me remember the name,' Harry went on. 'Something confounded foreign; that's for sure.'

Talk turned naturally to the war, to Bonaparte and his startling ability to deal with his enemies. Wellington, they all felt, would be able to defeat him in the long run, but not necessarily the short term. A few other cronies had arrived, some of them in uniform. This was a gathering of politicians and military men who knew about such things. The death of Nelson had affected them all badly, and there was a sombre note to the talk.

It was interrupted by the footman, who opened the door to announce Major Daniel Hunter and his companion-in-arms, a Captain Rafaelão D'Estremoz. The young Portuguese captain was on a short visit to England with letters from his government and a brief to befriend English officers against possible future need. He was slight and dark, and, Adam thought, quite the most handsome man he'd seen in some time. This kind of Mediterranean or Southern European countenance made a fine contrast to the more florid and coarser Anglo-Saxon features around him. He raised a hand to his own blond hair and momentarily regretted the passing of the fashion for wigs. Like the others, he murmured polite words of welcome, then decided to devote his attention to a group who were making up a table for faro. The captain joined them, his knowledge of the game limited to its name, taken from a city in his native land, but nevertheless anxious to learn.

He was lucky, with the traditional luck of the beginner, and had soon amassed a pile of promissory notes. Adam watched him approvingly. He didn't brag about his success, and listened deferentially to the advice of some of the older players. And continued to win.

The candles burnt low, the fire, only lit to cast a glow in the summer evening, died to embers, and some of the players took their leave. Adam expected the dashing captain to accompany his friend, Hunter, but when Daniel rose to leave, the young man was deep in a game, and waved away the major's worries and excuses in delightfully broken English.

"I play, Hunter. I play with these so helpful gentlemen and I theenk I maybe learn the game a leetle. I am finding my own way home, I assure." So Daniel left, and Rafaelão continued to play.

The earl found himself watching the captain perhaps more than was strictly necessary, even given an interest in teaching the finer points of the game. The dark hair fell over intelligent eyes in a engaging wave, and the mobile mouth was thinned and tightened in concentration. Adam forced himself to look away and then silently queried his sudden interest. He had always admired men as well as women, ever since he had been initiated into the dormitory delights of Eton, but after marrying Fiona he had thought himself above such things at last. Although the ton, as a whole, ignored homosexual relationships, they were nonetheless illegal and he had never cared to flout the law since leaving school. Now he was fascinated by a dark eyed stranger from the far side of the war torn continent. Ah well, nothing would come of it and at least his body was letting him know that it didn't share his depression.

*****

A watchman passed the house, calling out the hour, two past midnight already, and Adam thought perhaps he should go. His departure, at the end of a round, signalled the break-up of the group, and the captain was suddenly the object of a number of promises to call the next day, to ride with him in the park, to meet at this or that club (with the further promise of temporary membership) so that he could collect his winnings.

Adam found himself walking down the steps with the foreigner at his side, and it seemed they were going in the same direction.

There were young bucks abroad in the night, drunk and spoiling for fighting and mischief. As the first of them attacked the pair of older men, Adam relied on Rafaelão to see him off while he looked around, sure that there would be others behind them. He was right. They dealt with the ambush swiftly and expertly, both trained and neither so much in their cups as to be befuddled or slow to react. As Adam thanked his companion, and noticed that whilst young, he was positively mature compared with the boys they had sent on their way, Rafaelão clasped a hand to his shoulder, where a dark stain was beginning to spread. Adam could see, in the half light that precedes a summer dawn, that his fellow warrior was wounded. They were two steps from his own door, and without even listening to the half-heated protestations he pulled him inside and up to his bedroom, where he knew Matthews would have left a basin of water. He got Rafaelão to sit on the bed and take off his coat. The man was still trying to protest, but had insufficient English to make a really good job of it. Adam removed the shirt, stained crimson in the light of the candles he had lit, and breathed a sigh of relief as he realised the wound was slight.

*****

"Only pinked," he told the captain, in what he hoped was a bracing tone. Then he took a cloth and dipping it in the cool water, began to bathe the punctured skin. Contact with the flesh of the man he had been admiring all evening almost undid him. He hoped Rafaelão could see neither his erection, that threatened to burst from its confines, or his blushes. Rafaelão, it seemed, was a noticing sort of man. Using the pretext of supporting himself under the earl's ministrations, he let his own hand fall very firmly on Adam's thigh. Perhaps, Adam thought, a little giddily, there was an equivalent of Eton in Portugal. There was no use in pretending. When he had finished bathing the shoulder and fastening a pad formed from neck cloths (Matthews would be annoyed) inside a sling, formed from another of the lengths of snowy fabric, he met the captain's eyes and knew he was lost.

Their coupling was rapid and efficient, like a military encounter directed by an experienced general. Rafaelão, or Raf, as Adam learned to call him, was not at all shy, and not at all inexperienced. Younger than Adam but old in the ways of sex, he brought both of them to a satisfying climax, despite the hindrance of his bandaged arm. Then he started to kiss him. Adam had never been kissed by a man. Nocturnal exploits at school had not included romance or anything else deemed 'female' or 'vapourish' by the boys. He felt the roughness of the incipient dark beard sand his cheeks, and then found himself falling into an abyss of pleasure. This wasn't the dizzying thrust of orgasm, but rather the gentler swirl of emotion. He knew perfectly well that he was vulnerable, that his wife's death had left him starved of feelings, but up to now, he hadn't wanted to try any kind of relationship, even a purely sexual one. The sex had been wonderful; as wonderful as it could be between two tired individuals, one hampered by a sling, and Adam felt sure the next time would be more wonderful still. He gave himself up to the kiss, and allowed himself to dream.

Raf left before dawn was complete. No sense in letting the servants see or suspect what had happened in the night , although Adam knew he would have to account for the neck cloths. The staff were loyal, but any one of them could let him down in some way and lose their position; a turned off servant would almost certainly consider reporting his master to the authorities out of spite.

They agreed to meet in the park, where Rafaelão was to gather some of his winnings from the card party. He had, he said, been mounted by Hunter for the duration of his stay. Adam let the double entendre go without comment; he was too tired to try to tease a joke out of three languages at once. He slept, after his lover had gone, and was roused towards the middle of the day by Matthews drawing the curtains and exclaiming over the bloodied water in the basin.

*****

Later, valet soothed, riding clothes donned, and horse chosen from his small but excellent stable, the Earl of Carteret set out for Hyde Park. He found his friends, with Raf in their midst, quite easily. It was not so easy to extract the captain and have him in some measure to himself. In fact, it proved impossible. And the worst of it was that when Siviter asked, quite casually, when Captain D'Estremoz would return to Portugal, the answer was swift. Raf would leave for the coast that very evening, and expected to sail with the morning tide.

Adam was going to have to look elsewhere, to assuage his sorrows.

 

## An Afternoon's Outing

Desire was a harsh mistress. Desire for another man was the harshest of all. Lord Carteret sighed. Since Captain D'Estremoz had returned to Portugal, he had yearned for a lover. His interest in women had died with Fiona, but men... The dashing captain had done him a disservice, awakening dormant instincts. How was he to satisfy them?

Should he succumb to the knowing smile of his friend's son, and risk his honour, at least, seducing a young gentleman in his own circle? The boy was grown up, of course, but seemed to a 'courtesy uncle' barely out of short coats. Malfoy had shown sense in not buying the lad a commission. The French would likely make short work of him if he tried to follow Wellington to the Peninsula. The dispatches from the front grew ever more depressing. Despite the efforts of that fellow Strange in magically changing the roads, there were still lists of dead and wounded.

Instead of fighting the French, Draco seemed desirous of fencing with every man of the ton who could wield a foil, and had, it seemed, noticed the way Adam's eyes rested a little too lovingly on those slim but muscular arms and thighs. Semi-stripped for action, the young man was a pleasing sight. The white blonde hair and fragile features looked well in the latest fashions, wigs having been cast aside after the imposition of a powder tax. The dark eyes, so surprising and alluring beneath the fair hair, held amusement and a promise of satisfaction.

But the earl hesitated. Suppose he was wrong? Suppose this was a trap, designed to make him look foolish, or even to teach him some awful lesson. A youngster's 'lesson' could end with Adam kicking at the end of a rope if the wrong people heard about it.

Or, perhaps almost as bad in some respects, it could leave him at the mercy of the younger set's tricks and spells. Carteret preferred to leave such antics to insolent youth, and would certainly prefer not to be on the receiving end. The magic that ran alongside blue blood in the veins of Britain's aristocracy didn't seem to preclude cruelty.

He could always take himself to a molly house down near the docks, risking his life and reputation before the act, and after it if the place were to be raided. He would risk the pox as well, and there was no guarantee that his partner in such an undertaking would be young, handsome, or even clean. He thought perhaps he would stay clear of the clutches of the seedier parts of town. He might find a respite there for the fire that threatened to consume him, but at what price? There were coffee houses where men with an interest in other men gathered, of course, but he had never enjoyed the company of those who frequented them. His own tastes ran to riding, hunting and driving a fast team; the gentlemen's clubs were more congenial.

Of course, he could try celibacy, but it had never tempted him.

He had begun his explorations and admiration for his own sex at school, but had tried to lose the inclination in the joys of the marriage bed. He had truly cared for Fiona, the more so when she had presented him with an heir, but he had no desire to replace her. He thought perhaps that even a male partner would have to be , if not temporary, at least not permanently attached to his household in any way. Perhaps he would end up a recluse, a hermit on his country estate.

He preferred not to run foul of the law or of society's strictures. He knew a number of gentlemen who would probably be willing to accommodate him. None of them was diseased, and none of them was in the least likely to report him to the law; on the other hand, none of them created the desire in him that Draco Malfoy did. In any case, at present, they were all out of town, at war or in the country.

He hadn't seen his 'nephew' for a few years. School and Oxford had turned a pasty faced youngster into a dashing man about town, a true Corinthian, albeit smaller than average and with a strange fey beauty at odds with his sporting character. Adam had taken one look and lost his heart.

He would have to be careful not to lose his common sense as well.

After weighing the risks he headed for the door of the fencing salon. He would go to a boxing master, instead, and see if a few punishing rounds could knock these deranged desires out of him.

He didn't see the awareness of loss and sadness that fleetingly shadowed Draco's face. If he had, the next few weeks, and even the rest of their lives, might have been quite different.

*********

 

Julian Siviter was boxing, too, and they worked off some energy together, eventually admitting that they both needed refreshment and heading for their club in St.James. Julian ordered wine and they sat in huge, comfortable chairs near the window, commenting on the horseflesh, and occasionally, with less enthusiasm, on the ladies who passed.

Hermione Evershed walked slowly along, talking earnestly to a young man with a scarred face and a monocle. Julian laughed.

"She's a true bluestocking, that chit. I feel sure her sister must have been born on the wrong side of the blanket - there isn't a bookish bone in Joanna's body. I feel for their mama. It can't be easy to present two girls like that, one who puts all the young men off with her brains and the other who puts them off with her idiocy."

Adam nodded. He liked Lady Evershed, widow of an army man and always easy to converse with at dinner parties. He didn't know the twins well, but had already noticed Hermione's formidable intelligence and had suffered Joanna's inane chatter. He wondered idly who the young man could be.

"Some sprig of minor nobility who buried his nose in his books at school, no doubt," said Julian. "Porter, or Potter. Something like that. Branch of the Peverell family on the female side. Touch of trade somewhere along the line, I believe. At least he'll spare the rest of us." Even in their thirties, or perhaps especially in their thirties, Siviter and Carteret were considered uncommonly good 'catches' on the marriage mart, and scheming mothers tried hard to get their daughters into their line of sight.

Adam considered the conversation. Julian, or Jules as he affectionately called him, seemed as uninterested in women as he was himself. Perhaps they could extend their friendship profitably. But two faces swam before him, one tanned, with dark hair and laughing eyes, the other blond and cool. Siviter couldn't hold a candle to either of them. He drank deeply and turned the conversation back to horses.

There was to be a meeting at Newmarket during the next week; they arranged to travel together.

 

*********

 

Draco seemed intent on making minced meat of anyone who held a foil against him. Even young Crabtree was taking punishment at his hands. White sparks twirled lazily from the tip of the weapon and the button that made it safe glowed red. Gaston was wringing his hands in despair. The young man whose shirt looked like to be set ablaze by the sparks was breathing hard and trying to return sparks of his own. He was only managing snowflakes.

'Monsieur will ruin me. Nobody will come to thees house. I beg you, Monsieur Malfoy, do not do thees!' Something of his desperation must have penetrated Draco's mood for he dropped his foil and turned away from Lieutenant Weasley, his current opponent, with a petulant toss of his head.

'Why you teach us and then object when we practise what you preach is beyond me,' he told Gaston, and someone, possibly Crabtree, sniggered in the background, glad that someone else, for once, was the object of Draco's sarcastic tongue. Gaston was just glad that the display had stopped. He quickly paired another couple of hopeful fencers and shooed Draco off the floor with almost unseemly haste. Draco found his coat and poured himself into it; his cravat could wait for his valet's attentions. Muttering something to the Frenchman and throwing a few coins at him, he opened the door and left the salon, followed by Crabtree, and by Weasley, who, having lost his place on the floor, was inclined to stroll around to White's and see whether any of his brothers were there. A few snowflakes lingered on his red hair, incongruous on this summer day.

In their rush from the salon to the street, the three young men bumped into a couple passing by. Miss Evershed was known to them; her companion looked faintly familiar. Weasley greeted him in a fashion calculated to cause no offence if it turned out they knew each other after all.

'I say!' he began, 'It is you, isn't it? Haven't seen you this age!' The gentleman thus accosted smiled and raised his monocle.

'Oh, do you know Harry! I'm so glad!' Hermione was all beams and excitement but didn't say exactly who Harry was; this made things difficult for Weasley, who had no idea whether they were sufficiently familiar to address each other by their Christian names. He rather thought not. A passing acquaintance at school or college was the likeliest explanation and the surname would be helpful.

'We all know Potter.' Draco's drawl had venom in it but Hermione didn't seem to notice and Harry just smiled again. School, then. Weasley and Malfoy had been in different Oxford colleges and their paths had not crossed often. Then he remembered - the quiet boy in the dormitory at school. The one who always knew all the answers in form and none in the common room. His blush almost matched his hair; he really should have remembered. They exchanged slightly frosty bows, and made even frostier ones to Miss Evershed, who had been known to snub a man in the ballroom and was held at arm's length by most of the younger crowd.

'Damned cits. Everywhere, these days.' Draco hadn't even made sure they were out of earshot and Weasley hoped miss Evershed, at least, hadn't heard him. Potter, he rather thought, would be well accustomed to Malfoy's jibes.

'Cits?' He was surprised. If the fellow had been at school with them he couldn't be so ill bred.

'His father was something in arms manufacture,' Draco explained. 'Plenty of money, of course. Probably why that silly chit is making sheep's eyes at him. Everyone knows her mother hasn't a farthing. Of course, there's tradesman's blood there, too. Look, Weasley, sorry old Gaston spoiled our fun. Tell you what. Make it up to you. Join us for a trip to Newmarket next week. Capital racing, and a chance of heavy winnings.' Weasley blushed again as he realised that Draco was referring obliquely to the Weasley lack of family fortune, but accepted the invitation nevertheless. Crabtree smirked.

'Servant, Weasley,' he said , in a voice that meant the opposite, and Draco just bowed briefly before they left the lieutenant standing alone at the end of the street that led to White's. He headed for the club, reflecting that his leave was proving less entertaining than he had hoped, and reflecting, too, that Miss Evershed had damned pretty eyes.

He let his cane swing gently from his hand as he walked. Oddly, now that Draco was out of sight he could make coloured sparks flit around his head like butterflies.

 

*********

 

The following day, Adam was at the fencing salon at the same time as Draco again, quite by chance. The earl was matched with his friend Hunter, and they were concentrating hard, when suddenly they heard someone give a gasp of shock or pain. All eyes, theirs included, swivelled to the source of the noise. The Malfoy boy was standing poised, his foil held more like a spear or javelin than a fencing sword. His opponent was on the floor, blood welling from a cut on his face. It was the young man Adam had seen talking to one of the Evershed girls, the bookish one.

Gaston bustled over to the pair.

"Meestair Pottair! You are bleeding! What has happen here?" He glared at the youth as though the blood itself was the cause and not the result of the problem.

"He... He cut me. With the foil. Deliberately!" Potter was glaring at Draco, who backed an inch or two, but allowed himself to show a sneering expression.

"I merely touched him," he told the room at large. "He must have had some unhealed cut there that bled on contact. Perhaps his man is not good at handling a razor." He looked at his foil, fingering the button on the tip, which was certainly still intact. There were the usual sparks, multicoloured and angry looking, whirling around him. Potter, however, simply brushed away any that dared to get near him, and then, with a look of impatience, slashed the air with his foil, sending a shower of raindrops to quench Malfoy's fires.

Hunter sent Adam a warning glance, as if to dissuade him from involving himself in the affairs of young bloods, but Adam felt impelled to intervene. After all, Lucius Malfoy was one of his oldest friends and he regarded himself as almost an uncle...well, no, he conceded, not exactly an uncle, but there was some degree of obligation, after all.

'Gaston!' The earl's voice could be imperious when he chose. 'Bring water and cloths and make some attempt to make this young man presentable. And do wipe up the blood that has spilled on the floor before it sinks into the wood. You really can't have a bloodstained floor in a fencing salon, you know!' Then he turned to Draco. 'Perhaps I can stand in for M. Potter,' he suggested. Daniel was shaking his head at the other side of the room but didn't interrupt. Draco smiled, or Adam thought he did. An expression like a flash of lightning lit his face for a moment. Then he raised his foil and took up the opening position.

At first, it appeared they were well matched, but soon Adam's greater experience began to tell, and Draco was forced to admit defeat. He stood panting, his normally pale face flushed and his foil quiescent. Adam's shone, surrounded by what looked like motes dancing in a sunbeam, except for the fact that it was a rainy day. Potter had been bathed and mopped and perhaps soothed. Gaston was ushering him out. He turned at the door and another of his showers darkened Adam's sunshine. Then he was gone.

Daniel sauntered over.

'What was that all about?' he asked. 'You looked as if you wanted to kill him, Malfoy.' Draco shrugged, a difficult undertaking, given that he had donned the tight fitting coat again.

'Not kill,' he said, considering his words slowly. 'But I'd like to show him his place.'

'Which I gather you think isn't here,' Adam rejoined. He was surprised at the extent of hostility in the Draco's eyes, then told himself it was directed at Potter, not him. He shuddered inwardly and hoped never to earn Draco's dislike to that extent.

They were treated to a diatribe about cits and tradespeople, so plentiful since the war had brought money to the manufacturing classes. It was Daniel who suggested that perhaps they could go and have a drink at the club; no cits would ever darken its doors. Adam, delighted at the thought of spending more time with Draco, even a Draco in a dark mood, seconded the invitation and they left together, telling Gaston they'd soon be back. He was putting the foils away and merely nodded.

'A nice trick, that, with the sparks.' Adam wanted to compliment Draco, wanted to see pleasure on the delicate features.

'My father taught me.' Draco gave a sidelong glance at his companions. They were friends of his father, he knew. But they were younger than Lord Malfoy; Carteret's land ran beside the Malfoy estate and Hunter had been a frequent visitor there. The two younger men had often visited Adam's neighbour, to look at new horseflesh, or play a hand of cards. They had watched Draco growing up, and he, in turn, had watched them. He was by no means displeased to be invited to drink with them.

Siviter was in the club when they arrived, and a little desultory conversation soon elicited the fact that they were all going to the races at Newmarket. It only remained for Julian to insist that they make up a party and forestall any demurs by saying that his staff would prepare a hamper for them all. Siviter's cook was renowned. An emigré, like Gaston, Guillaume had brought skills and flair from his native Paris, and was now serving the English aristocracy rather than the French. It was,he explained to anyone who would listen, healthier for his head. And of course the war was now preventing the refugees from returning. The hamper would contain a banquet.

Adam was cautiously pleased. He would spend an entire day with Draco, and at the very least could enjoy watching that mobile mouth and those eloquent eyes. He imagined touching him, then decided to leave such mental treats until he was alone in his bedchamber. Again, that knowing look from the young man in question. Could he? Would he?

 

*********

 

The race day dawned bright and clear; it was a high spirited group that set out for Newmarket, Guillaume's splendid hamper stowed safely in the back of Julian's curricle, watched by his tiger as though the lad's life depended on its safe arrival - which it quite possibly did.

Adam and Julian had been joined by Daniel, and Draco had Crabtree and Weasley with him. Daniel had brought his own curricle and invited Weasley to step up beside him. They travelled in a kind of convoy, occasionally passing each other, each man wanting to show off driving prowess and glossy beasts. If Draco used the whip a little too much for Adam's liking, he could be excused, on account of his youth, and the excitement of the day, full of sunshine and the promise of the delights of the turf.

They stopped near Epping for a light nuncheon, so as not to overstrain the horses, and it was Draco who suggested changing the occupants of each vehicle so that they could all spend time with each other. He reddened slightly as he said this, and looked to Adam for approval. Adam approved, and found himself sitting beside the alluring blond, chatting about horses and the day ahead. Weasley was talking animatedly to Siviter and for a moment Adam felt ashamed that he had left Daniel to the mercies of Crabtree,whose conversation was less than scintillating, but soon forgot about the others in the pleasure of getting to know Draco better.

He found him to be a typical scion of English nobility, haughty to a degree, and uncaring about lesser mortals, The earl had a vision of altering that but knew that it would be hard to challenge Malfoy's traditional upbringing of his son. There was the slight tendency to be careless towards his matched bays; that was to be deplored, of course, but perhaps it was just nervousness at driving his father's friend. Adam reassured himself firmly. Draco was as beautiful as he looked. Angelic, in fact.

When they reached the race course, there were already a prodigious number of people and carriages and they were forced to park some way from the course itself. They decided to sample the contents of the hamper before walking to a better position from which to watch the races, and as Julian poured wine into the glasses his man had so carefully wrapped, Crabtree made himself useful for once, and handed round portions of game pie, crusty rolls spread lavishly with yellow butter, quail eggs, thick stalks of asparagus with a creamy sauce for dipping and crisp-skinned chicken legs, each in a little paper cone to protect race-going finery from spots of grease. Adam glanced at Draco and saw the young man watching him in return. Draco's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly and his sharp white teeth bit into the chicken. Then his tongue flickered out ostensibly to wipe his lips, but Adam felt as if he had just been dipped into a hot tub - he found himself short of breath, and his breeches did not fit as well as they had when he set out. He tore his look away, but not before he'd seen Draco's small smile and the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. There was no hint of deceit or dislike.

So he wasn't imagining things. The boy -well, no, not a boy any longer - the youth, then - was his for the taking. The sun shone brighter and he barely noticed the taste of the pie.

When they had finished and the tiger had collected and packed all the leavings, they set off to make their way through the crowds. As they reached a position where everyone felt able to see the proceedings, they were hailed by a group not far away. Harry Pearce had brought Lady Evershed and her daughters. The colonel was delighted to see them, but Adam sensed that Draco was less than happy to be included in a party with the Eversheds. As soon as he could, he steered Draco away from the main gathering and noticed the relief on the other man's face.

'Come,' he admonished. 'The colonel's a very good sort of fellow and knows your father well. What's the problem?'

'He may be a good sort of fellow but my father isn't so happy about him consorting with cits.' Draco looked sidelong at Adam to see how the earl would take this, and hearing no reply, went on, 'He thinks we should make a stand. Refuse to socialise with a lot of jumped up tradesmen.' Adam was bewildered. Ruth Evershed had, he was sure, never soiled her hands with any kind of trade, and her daughters were even given the entrée to Almack's. Draco was adamant. The widow Evershed had been married to an officer and gentleman, true, and a friend of the colonel, to boot, but her own origins were quite lowly. Her father had been a draper. A draper? Adam expressed astonishment. Lady Evershed showed none of the signs of having lived over the shop. Draco expanded his theme. Her father had been responsible for the supply of army uniforms, which was how the now deceased Sir William had met his bride; Evershed had been something to do with outfitting the army and had had to mix with a low sort of person to ensure the best terms for his country. Adam didn't personally feel that this made Ruth Evershed any more or less acceptable, but then he had never been one to stand on ceremony or cling to what he saw as outmoded attitudes. Malfoy, however, was old fashioned, and had evidently imbued his son with his beliefs. A pity, but at least he, the Earl of Carteret had sufficient blue blood even for Draco's taste.

They watched the racing without ever placing a bet. They were both too engrossed in each other's company. The noise of the crowd, the pounding of the hooves and the heat of the afternoon sun made a dizzying background to what was rapidly becoming more than mere conversation. When the last race was over and they turned to walk back to the others, Adam knew, although nothing had been said, that he would not be spending the night alone. The body language of his companion had made that more than clear. And Draco's pantaloons, a new fashion that not even Brummel's style strictures could impose on Carteret, were even more strained than his own nether garments.

Weasley was waving some winnings, his freckled face creased in a huge smile, and Joannna Evershed was squealing with excitement over something or other. It was probably the parade of winners that had caught her attention, their hooves burnished silver and their manes spelled gold for the event. The colonel looked pleased with himself and the world, and Daniel was chatting to Julian and Lady Evershed. Adam was glad of the crush; they would be unlikely to notice his state of arousal. As they headed for their conveyances, he was sorry to see Tom Quinn in the distance. Surely by now the fellow knew better than to throw good money after bad. The goddess of luck never favoured him. And yet there was a smile on Tom's   
still-handsome face. Adam hoped he had won a little for once.

Having started the idea of changing partners for the drive, Draco felt obliged to continue the custom and Adam found himself with young Weasley. The lad was full of the bets he had placed, and the way Hermione had smiled at him. Did Adam think? Was it not absolutely certain that? Could he assume? Fortunately, the earl was not expected to answer any of the questions thrown at him, but merely required to listen. This he did, or appeared to do, though his mind was a long way off, admiring a white blond head, sculptured cheekbones, and limbs encased in the tightest of jackets and pantaloons. When they stopped again near Wanstead Abbey to let the horses rest, he assured Weasley he'd enjoyed his company and gave him such a gracious smile that the lieutenant quite thought he had meant it. Then they changed places again and Adam joined Daniel for the last stretch of the drive.

If his friend had noticed anything he was not about to say so. The earl was in one of his 'moods', pleasant but remote, not snubbing a fellow, but not initiating conversation, and certainly not to be teased.

 

*********

 

Teasing was left to Draco. At first he pretended he was going straight home, then changed his mind and accompanied Adam to the club. He was about to leave, without even an excuse, then settled with a drink and looked ready to make an evening of it. Adam wanted nothing more than to get him away, get him to himself. Playing hard to get was a young man's game, or more properly a young woman's, and the earl was close to losing patience when Draco eventually rose, yawning exaggeratedly, and suggested that they might be walking the same way. They were, but only because they were headed for the same house, not because their normal routes home lay together. They didn't talk as they walked through the dusk, carefully avoiding horse manure and other hazards,and occasionally spelling them aside, but Adam felt a change in the atmosphere, as if Draco was relaxing and had finished with games.

He dismissed the servants once the butler had brought and opened a fine bottle of wine. The curtains were drawn and the room was quiet and dim in the candlelight. There was no fire; the evening was too warm for that. He told Dursley, his butler, to tell Matthews he would not be needed, then poured a glass of wine for his companion. He made lights dance in the tawny liquid and in response Draco sent sparks chasing the pattern on the cut glass. They were still silent. The afternoon had seen the conversation range through horses, the war, the latest guns for hunting and duelling, the price of timber on the Malfoy estate, a few spells for enhancing crops and finally the health of Draco's mother. The underlying, unspoken talk had all been of what they might, what they could, what they would. Now it was all settled, and there was no need for any words at all.

One moment, Draco was in a chair at the opposite side of the fireplace with its ornate screen, and the next he was curled around Adam like a lithe cat. Adam hadn't seen him move, or even prepare to move. He sat very still. This creature was still unfamiliar with its host and might scratch or bite if startled. Then they were kissing and it was as if the thunder of the horses had followed them from Newmarket in Adam's veins. Draco gave a soft sigh and snuggled even closer, those pantaloons definitely and deliciously too tight.

Adam wasn't sure how they got upstairs. He thought he might have levitated them both, but his cane was still in the hall so he doubted it. Small spells didn't need a stick of any kind, but getting two men up the curving staircase would require either effort or assistance. It seemed they had made the effort without noticing and now they lay on Adam's bed, carefully undressing and exploring each other. Draco sprawled beneath him, not in the least shy, glorying in his look and touch. The latter grew less and less tentative. Adam groaned with desire and heard an answering whimper.

Now there was magic without effort from either of them. Draco's sparks threaded through Adam's sunbeams until the room was alight with happiness. Despite his delicate looks, Draco was strong and supple. Adam thrilled at the contortions that enabled him to plunge deep into the body of his new partner. He forgot Fiona, forgot Rafaelão and forgot even himself. The world was made of Draco and it was good.

The best thing, he thought, as he woke late in the morning, tangled with his still-sleeping lover, was that Draco was going nowhere. They had all the rest of the season to enjoy, and later, if they were both in the country, what could be more natural than a visit to a neighbour's estate? Adam imagined Draco's thighs in riding breeches and squirmed a little with pleasure.

But of course, when he'd forgotten Fiona and Rafaelão, he'd also forgotten Harry.

 

## A Morning's Work

Adam was aware that not all was well with his summer or his world. His young lover was as delightful as ever but they were both made extra cautious by the recent raid on the White Swan and were careful never to display their affection in public. Even the ton were vulnerable to accusations. Besides this, Draco had taken to fencing with Harry Potter and his crowd, which now included Lieutenant Weasley, more often than the earl deemed necessary or even suitable. He thought of mentioning the matter to Malfoy but decided against it. No sense in alerting the senior Malfoy to the junior's every foible; it might rebound on him, after all. He had no desire to find his country estate the subject of an invasion of crocodiles or a rain of newts.

Weasley, who was expecting to return to the Peninsula at any moment, was acting more and more wildly, one moment clinging to Harry, another to Draco and yet a third at the feet of the bookish Miss Evershed, who appeared to ignore him. Her twin, on the other hand, was anxious to obtain the favour of all or even just one, any one of the young men in her sister's set, and never failed to make herself an object of derision at the balls and routs that filled the summer months of the Season.

When he asked Draco why he fenced with Potter instead of with him, his lover, or with Daniel, Draco replied, quite reasonably, that he had no wish to be defeated before he began, and that he was at the salon to practise rather than to be practised upon, after which he made such a cascade of sparks appear from the tip of his cane that Adam was forced to hug him and beg forgiveness, surrounding him with sunlight and warmth.

Gaston raised his eyebrows, gave a Gallic shrug and continued to instruct his aristocratic pupils in the arts of swordplay.

Then the undercurrent of suspicion that Adam had sensed in the group of younger men, came to a head. Potter, sending a shower of his signature raindrops cascading across the polished floorboards caused Crabtree to slip. When Draco demanded an apology on behalf of his friend, none was forthcoming. Draco's sparks just happened to land on Harry's hair and for a moment the boy was surrounded in a halo of flame. Then he quenched the fire and retaliated with a wave of cold, salt water that wet Draco's fencing breeches and his stockinged feet. Draco dried his feet with sparkling heat and attacked Potter with determination. His foil was glowing and Gaston was forced to intervene and ask both of them to leave his premises.

Carteret followed his lover out of the salon, hoping both to avert further hostilities and persuade Draco to dry his breeches, which revealed his form rather too gloriously. To his dismay he found Potter angrily throwing a glove at Draco's feet. A challenge having been issued, Adam felt it imprudent to intervene but his heart sank. Honour obliged him to consent to act as second, along with Crabtree, while Potter, it seemed, was to be supported by Weasley and a friend he referred to as Neville, but whom no-one knew.

Back at his town house, where he and Draco were both living at present ( Draco as a 'lodger' in the eyes of the staff), Adam gave vent to exasperation.

"Why? Why fight him and why a duel? Why risk the wrath of the law? You are already in danger on our account. Why put yourself further in harm's way for him?"

"You saw. He challenged me."

"You provoked him."

"He provoked me first."

"But why? Why would he? What had you done? Continued with your mockery of his origins, I suppose."

"He's a cit. He has no business..."

"Draco, his money's as good as yours is, to Gaston. You hold old-fashioned views for one so young. Forget his origins, Take the young man on his merits. Or rather," seeing the speculative look in his lover's eyes, "Don't take him at all. Ignore him. I can give you more sport than Gaston's establishment ever could."

"Too late, my dear." Draco drawled the words and Adam knew they were true. He could not ask the other to withdraw. Potter had issued the challenge and Draco would have to answer it. He shuddered.

Even later, wrapped in each other's arms, two blond heads close on the pillow, and pale thighs overlapping, there was a sense of doom. Adam wished he could keep Draco held safe against him but knew he could not deny his love the chance to prove himself and defend his honour, however much that honour was the product of a stiff-necked upbringing.

*********

In the morning, the seconds waited on each other. It was obligatory to try to reach an accommodation - an apology or a withdrawal - but they all knew that was hopeless and instead went straight to the business of weapons and times and other arrangements like hiring an obliging surgeon to stand by and making sure no word got to the elder Malfoy. Adam felt his part in this deception keenly. His old friend would never forgive him if anything happened to the heir to the Malfoy estates.

The time was fixed for Thursday morning at dawn. The earl hoped they could avoid detection. He had no desire to have to flee abroad on account of this ill-judged affair. There was already danger enough in the affair of the heart (and other organs) in which he was indulging. He was also aware of a guilty gladness that Daniel would have returned to the continent on Tuesday and would not be around to scold him, however things turned out.

The weapon of choice, as he had feared, was the sword. Both sides were adamant. A gun might perhaps have been bespelled to fire wide. Swords were under the control of their wielders, who could use them as more than mere blades. He sighed. Then, everything having been arranged to everyone else's satisfaction, if not exactly to his, they parted company. Crabtree obviously expected him to apprise Draco of the outcome of the meeting but before he went home he found his feet turning towards his club. He needed a drink, in the company of men of sense. Fortunately, Hunter and Siviter were chatting to Colonel Pearce about the war, and he joined them thankfully.

Pearce was making cryptic comments to Major Hunter and paused as the earl joined them. Then he shrugged and continued.

"Carteret has taken his seat in the house often enough. He should know of what we do," he told his fellow officer.

 The colonel was no longer required to attend Wellington at the front, but had a great deal to do with intelligence gathering at home. Adam knew this, and admired him for his industry. It probably saved as many lives as the most up-to-date canon, and gave them a hope of defeating Napoleon in the end. The colonel resumed his conversation.

"If you can get D'Estremoz to help, that would be ideal. We need to know who's at the centre of this trade in information and we have to rule out the Portuguese as well as the Spanish."

"Rule them out?" Adam joined in, surprised. Rafaelão's name had given him a start and then he had concentrated on what was being said.

"We think, or rather we fear, that the traitor is home grown, but of course we need to prove it, and to narrow the search."

"I'll see him in Lisbon later in the week, sir. We'll soon scout out your traitor for you." Hunter took his leave, shrugging into an overlarge, caped greatcoat; the pockets were bulky with pistols and Adam felt it was as well his friend was on their side. Daniel Hunter with a spelled pistol would strike fear into anyone's heart. He wondered what Rafaelo's weapon of choice was; they'd been too busy to discuss such things...

Harry Pearce smiled at Hunter then turned to his other friends. He took out his own 'hunter' and let the gentle ticking remove the barrier of silence he'd erected earlier against casual eavesdroppers. Adam realised that if they hadn't wanted to include him in the conversation, not a word would have reached his ears.

He thought of sharing the source of his black mood with Siviter and Pearce but decided against it. They were friends of Malfoy, too, and he thought they frowned on his relationship with Draco. They were probably aware of its details. Not much escaped either man.

Instead, he determined to enjoy a drink and an hour of pleasantries. He pushed Rafaelão to the back of his mind. He had Draco now. An insistent stray thought replaced blond fragility with dark waves and a laughing face but he pushed it aside; Badajoz hadn't wanted him on any permanent basis, and that was that. A bird in the hand...

*****

The birds had barely stirred when Adam and Draco took Adam's curricle to the Heath on Thursday morning. The lovers had spent most of the night in a frantic wrestling match that consisted of desperate sex and even more desperate attempts to ward off the dawn. Even their magic could not, however, keep the sun at bay, and they found themselves soberly dressed, behind Adam's matched bays, heading for the duelling ground. They took up Crabtree outside his lodging; the high racing vehicle was cramped with three passengers but its speed might yet be needed. The surgeon, one Snape, a man of dour disposition but known for his skills with bandages and potions, was to come with Neville Longbottom, bringing a coach in case it should be required.. Potter and Weasley would travel together.

As they converged on the Heath, Draco's face grew even paler and Adam wondered if his own was equally wan. The others had arrived already and Weasley was pacing out the distance, watched by a large young man who was frowning at everyone. That had to be Longbottom and the sour-faced man leaning against a tree was surely the sawbones.

Again, the seconds went through the formalities of trying to arrange an apology or withdrawal. Again, they failed, both combatants sneering in an incongruous display of solidarity. Crabtree inspected the swords.  They were sharp and bright, beautiful things, deadlier than fencing foils and heavier too, but carefully balanced for their owners' hands. There was no sign of tampering; the hilts were secure, Draco's showing the Malfoy arms and Harry's surmounted by a chased silver owl.

Adam felt out of his depth. He wished some of his own crowd could be there to lend maturity to the proceedings. He didn't set much store by the surgeon. The fellow was evidently just tempted by the fee he would get whatever the outcome. This group of youngsters had no real grasp of death. They were treating the entire thing as a kind of theatre and there was a spark of eagerness in Ron Weasley's eyes.

Then it began, as it had to, and inevitably, they were evenly matched. The only sound was the occasional ring of blade on blade, and once, a sudden intake of breath by Potter as Draco lunged, then an oath as one of them slipped. Adam couldn't even tell which. He suddenly knew the saying 'his heart was in his mouth' had deep and perilous meaning. His eyes tried to skitter away from the gleaming swords at the same time that he tried to concentrate on their movements. As he dragged his reluctant  gaze back to the combat he was aware of a shadow on the edge of the Heath and heard a rumble. Another coach.

The law? Another duel? Draco's father? Each possibility in turn was dismissed. They would have heard at least a rumour of another fight, from Snape, and he was certain the news of this hadn't spread beyond their own circle. Or was he? He turned to look, and missed the moment when Draco began to send sparks glittering like deadly fireflies towards Harry, who countered with stinging hail. He would have given much to miss the arrival that met his eyes.

Hermione Evershed was furious. Ron Weasley had told her about the duel, not meaning to, of course, but making his plans quite clear. Hermione was capable of putting two and two together to make a dozen, at least, and had decided to do something about her conclusions. John Coachman was still remonstrating about her inappropriate behaviour as she flounced into the little area of heathland filled with the smell of magic and sweat. Young ladies simply didn't attend duels. It was enough to sigh over the winners and losers afterwards. Hermione, however, was not just any young lady. Adam groaned.

Harry and Draco were too intent on each other to notice Miss Evershed. Draco's sparks were each exploding now, sending showers of fiery petals into the atmosphere so that the fight looked for all the world like a Vauxhall entertainment. Harry froze each petal and brought it softly to earth as snow till the little party was shivering in the sudden winter. Hermione, too, was shaking with the sudden cold, but her face was determined.

Time slowed as she opened her reticule, a flimsy embroidered thing that surely was meant only to hold a lacy pocket handkerchief. She held its velvet mouth towards the duellists. Adam watched as yards of silk thread poured out, far more than could ever have been stuffed inside. Pastel-hued and delicate, it wove through the air towards the swords and the feet of the men using them. Tangling the limbs of the duellists would make both falter and lose concentration. Presumably Hermione hoped they'd have the sense to stop. The earl could see her reasoning and applaud her courage but he could not let this happen. Death before dishonour was a tenet too firmly ingrained in the minds of all  Englishmen. He waved his cane and the threads shrivelled in a sudden blast of heat. Then he waved it again and a scurry of mice came from nowhere, squeaking around Hermione's skirts. Neville saw what was afoot and joined in, sending a phalanx of toads hopping to join the mice. Hermione shrieked and dropped her reticule. The threads wavered and wrapped harmlessly round clumps of grass. Ron yelled and rushed towards Hermione. Snape, whose boots had been singed by the blast from Adam's cane, backed further into the shadows. Crabtree stood open-mouthed. Adam felt a small degree of satisfaction.

The principals were still fighting but something of the uproar must have reached them for they both hesitated.

There was a stillness that was broken by a blackbird's liquid morning notes. Then Draco flicked his sword lightly across Harry's scar. Harry put his free hand up to his face and pointed his own sword at Draco's heart. They were too near and there was no way to avoid the blow, but at the last second Harry's sword fell and Draco's followed it. To the shock of all the watchers the two closed on each other, weaponless.

Hand to hand combat? It was Adam who first realised that tears were streaming down Harry's face and Draco's eyes were sparking as dangerously as his sword. And that they were hugging, not grappling. And kissing. Definitely kissing. Adam's cry drowned the blackbird. Hermione's sobs followed a moment later. Then all was chaos as yet another coach rolled onto the scene, this time containing  the arm of the law. Adam saw the smirk on Snape's face and changed his mind about the man, not for the better.

The Bow street runners attempted to arrest the men for kissing. Everyone spoke at once and after a moment the baffled runners had to accept the claim that Harry and Draco were cousins who had just met after a long absence. Only Snape disagreed with this version of events.

"I tell you it was a duel," he said, ignoring the disdain on the other men's faces (and even on Hermione's - she would not have used the law to stop the event).

"Aye, so you said, Sir! And what do we find? We don't find a duel. We find men kissing, bold as brass. That's what we find! And that, as you must know," and here the chief runner looked round at all present, "Is even more agin the law than duelling. If it was to lead to anything more, that is." He tapped the side of his nose knowingly and waited for the significance of his words to sink in. "But as you is all agreed that these gentlemen," he went on, stressing the word, "is long lost cousins, well, I don't know as to whether there's anything for us here."

"But my reward!" Snape sounded desperate.

"An informer what informs out of hope of a reward, Sir, should be more careful about what he is informing upon." Even the runner was looking down his nose at Snape. "It's my opinion, Sir, that you  must entirely have mistaken the purpose of your employment, which was obviously to treat the scratch on the dark young gentleman's brow and to minister to the young lady's attack of the vapours.". He dismissed Snape's protest that both these afflictions were a result of the duel and that he would not otherwise have been there. "Stands to reason, Sir. Meeting of long lost cousins in a lonely place at this hour of the morning? Might have been any kind of a deception. Could have been highwaymen for all anyone knew. Of course they'd want someone of a medical nature with them." The runner himself looked puzzled at what he was saying, and Adam let fall the cane that had been negligently pointing in that direction. He had interfered enough.

"But the cut..." Snape gestured at Harry, who bemusedly wiped blood from the scratch on his head.

"I hit my head on a tree," he told the runners, who decided not to question this explanation.

"And the young lady. Why would she...?"

Hermione's protest that it was mice rather than blood,that had caused her distress was believed to be a hallucination, even by the by now throughly befuddled runners, although John Coachman allowed that perhaps there had been a mouse, and a toad, on the grass.

"It's obvious," their leader explained to himself aloud. "The young gentleman, on seeing his cousin, ran headfirst into a tree, whereupon the sight of the ensuing blood so affected the young lady that..."

Taking advantage of the arguments and the large number of people now surrounding them, Harry and Draco picked up their swords and departed in Harry's post-chaise, leaving the rest of the party unable to explain properly to each other what all the fuss had been about.

Lieutenant Weasley took charge of Hermione and told John Coachman to take them home forthwith. Yes, he would accompany Miss Evershed and explain to her mama. He helped the sobbing girl into her coach with a very proprietorial arm, and they left at once.

The runners left, too, annoyed and bewildered, their morning already turning out to be a shambles that would have to be explained back in Bow Street. Crabtree was begging Neville to tell him more about his amphibian spell and they turned together for Longbottom's coach, which was soon on its way back to town. Adam was left to pick up the swords and wave away Snape's request for a lift. He mounted his curricle still dry-eyed but almost sick with the effort of remaining so, and left the surgeon to walk.

*****

The house was empty. The servants might as well have been ghosts. The pictures and curtains had lost their colour. Draco's clothes were strewn around the bedroom like the debris of a disaster. Adam stood looking at the bed, remembering how they had tried to hold back the day. A premonition of sorts - but this loss was not the one he had feared. He stepped over to the window and watched unseeing, his cheeks wet with tears. Instead of the morning bustle he gazed inwards, recognising the looks on Harry's and Draco's faces as they kissed.

The Earl of Carteret was alone again.

 

## A Night's Reflection

The dispatches from the Peninsula were bad. So bad that the earl was able to ignore his own misery in comforting friends who had lost loved ones to Napoleon's Eagles.

And then it was his own loss, as Daniel Hunter appeared on the list. Adam was at his club and shared the shock of hearing the news with Jules and an elderly man called Dumbledore,whom no-one knew well. Harry Pearce read the list, his voice faltering on the well-known name. They all stood and maintained a moment's silence as a mark of respect, then Harry called across the young officer who had brought the list.

Remus admitted to having known Daniel well.

"He was always in danger. Not that he led assaults or was ever in the thick of battle, but he was one of our best intelligence gatherers. It's said he gave his life to save one of the Portuguese. Someone he was close to. A name like one of their border castles. Estre...something."

"And this D'Estremoz?" Adam didn't care that they could all hear his anguish. "Did he survive?"

"I think so. But he won't live long if he's one of that crowd." The source of information was careless with his knowledge and didn't care if it hurt his listeners. "Besides, it's rumoured he don't want to live long without the Major. If you understand me."

Adam understood him all too well, and left abruptly. Back at home, he handed coat, hat and cane to the footman and repaired to the library where he poured himself a glass of brandy, from a bottle preserved since before the war with France, and sat sipping morosely.

Daniel, gone. Eternally. Into the arms of what most people would hope was a loving God.

Draco, gone. Eternally as near as made no matter. Into the arms of a loving Harry.

Rafaelão, gone. Back to Portugal, probably at the time into the loving arms of Daniel and quite possibly about to join Daniel for ever.

Daniel had been his friend. Draco had been his lover. Raf had been his lover too, or so Adam had thought. Had Raf ever seen him as anything other than an evening's entertainment? Adam felt like a cursed amulet, something that brought bad luck, though doubtless Draco would not see it that way.

As abruptly as he had left the club, he left the house, coat slung round bowed shoulders, cane swinging from his hand. He walked for an hour, two hours, unaware of where he was going or what he passed.

*****

On London Bridge a whore reached out, opening the laces of sailcloth breeches, making quite clear what lay within and that it was on offer. Adam walked past without so much as turning his head. Part of him noticed the approach, but the rest of him dismissed it as inconsequential in a world where he no longer had Daniel, Draco or Raf. He didn't differentiate between the three losses. Not did he separate the types of love he had felt. He just knew he had loved and lost. Lust was of no interest to him.

He slowed when he reached the Strand. Aware of a so-called molly house hereabouts he watched the passers-by until he thought he had identified the place. It appeared to be a normal tavern, if somewhat low class. Adam bought a tankard of something the landlord claimed was ale, and sipped it reflectively while he surveyed the 'goods' on offer. There were a number of young men, boys almost, dressed as women. They spoke to each other in affected, high voices and ogled the customers over their fans. A particularly bold member of their coterie, blond hair falling carelessly over cerulean eyes, stared straight at Adam and then lowered his fan, licking his lips. For a moment, but only for a moment, Adam was reminded of Draco's fair, seemingly fragile beauty, and contemplated an hour in the arms or between the legs of someone who could perhaps help him to forget. Then a rough-looking fellow rushed in and shouted out one word: "Constables."

The 'women' were transformed into men in a trice, the silks and satins bundled behind the counter and the fans shoved precipitately into boots or capacious pockets. When the constables entered, the clientele were what they could expect in a 'drinking ken', a mixture of working class regulars and gentlemen 'slumming' for amusement. The officers accepted a drink 'on the house' and glared around them, daring anyone to display any mannerism that did not accord with their idea of proper manliness. They left, disgruntled that the tip-off that had brought them there had been too late or too ill-informed, and Adam, finishing his drink, left too.

It would not do.

Somewhere inside his misery, Adam knew that this was not the way to go. The Earl of Carteret could not be found as a common criminal in a molly house. His son should not have to live with the shame of a father pilloried or even hung for sodomy. Daniel, Draco and Raf, whatever they had wanted, would not have wanted this.

*****

In the morning, despite an aching head and a sour stomach, he took himself to the Park, to ride. He was joined by Ron Weasley, recently promoted Captain, bright as a copper penny this sunny morning, on leave again and full of Iberian reminiscences. He commiserated over Daniel's death but either didn't see or chose not to see how much it had affected Adam.

"He was your friend, I know. You must be proud of him. He saved a lot of lives. Do you remember the day we went to the races? Well, of course you do. He was a charming fellow."

They chatted about the race meeting and then Ron turned to Adam with a gleam in his eyes. "I forgot! You wouldn't know! Do you remember seeing Tom Quinn?" Of course Adam remembered. All the events of the last year or so were etched on his mind, engravings on old glass.

"I hoped he might have been lucky."

"He was. He won a packet. And gambled it the next night." Adam groaned but Ron went on. "Won again. An estate in the Indies. Sugar, I believe. And money here to go with it. He's out there now. Harry and Draco have gone with him, at his expense. He wanted their help running the place. Thought sparks and showers might be the answer. I don't know what the question was. And I believe he intends to leave them there as his representatives - go off to look for some old flame who fled to the wilds of South America after the Terror in France. Well, she must have been a very young flame then, but you know what I mean." He rambled on, carefree as ever, and Adam was left contemplating the pieces of other people's lives he'd just been handed, trying to put them together like a Grecian vase presented as shards for purchase by a discerning collector.

So, Draco was as out of reach as Daniel. And Raf? He supposed it was possible that the dashing Portuguese officer might survive the war. But whether he would ever seek Adam out again was another matter.

He turned the conversation to Ron's recently announced engagement to Hermione. He would have thought, he said, that Joanna would have been more to the taste of an army man. Weasley laughed.

"You mean a bluestocking is unlikely to make a camp follower? But I don't want her to accompany me! She's welcome to her bookish pursuits here. Keep her occupied till we have a nursery to take up her time. And she's a stunning girl. Clever, too. That thread, at the duelling ground! Joanna would never have thought of that!" He spoke with a fond pride that amused Adam as well as boding well for the relationship.

"I hear Harry is like to be your papa-in-law," he said, glancing at his companion to see if he already knew, and what he thought about the matter.

"Couldn't be better!" exclaimed Harry's putative relative by marriage. "Mothers-in-law are the very devil, you know!" he confided. "A wedding of her own will keep her from interfering in ours." Then he realised that Adam was not inexperienced in the matter of mothers-in-law and added guiltily, "That is to say, I mean...." Adam rescued him.

"My own mother-in-law was never the interfering type. And she cares very well for my son. But then she never comes to town, so our paths rarely cross."

"What, never?"

"Well, hardly ever." Ron shook his head, mystified that anyone could forgo the pleasures of the capital on a permanent basis. Then, his attention distracted by an acquaintance in uniform on a parallel pathway, he returned to the topic of the war. He hoped, he said, to remain unscathed, or, if not unscathed, to take a bullet somewhere non-fatal and thus invalided home a hero. He was so damnably cheerful about it all that Adam felt near to screaming, but laughed instead and hoped he would get his wish. They parted the best of friends and Adam went home in a better frame of mind. His losses were settling in his head, moving to a place where he could cope with them, like the earlier loss of Fiona. The future belonged to his son - and to fellows like Weasley. As for Draco and Harry, he wished them well. In a world of sugar cane and sunshine they would no doubt thrive.

*****

It was Harry Pearce who was the bearer of bad tidings again.

"Carteret, you remember D'Estremoz? Friend of Hunter's?" Without waiting for an answer he continued. "One of ours, of course. Cleared to the highest level. Came over here with vital intelligence that time. Missing, I'm afraid. In action. Where he shouldn't have been, but apparently he got caught up in a skirmish and didn't have the sense to extricate himself. Brave as a lion, but not an ounce of caution. Hope he's alive somewhere. Though thinking of the way the Frenchies treat spies, perhaps I don't. If he's recognised...."

Far a long and awful moment a picture of Raf, broken, beaten, his beautiful skin scarred and his eyes pleading, passed in front of Adam's appalled eyes and then somehow he was able to answer casually, agreeing with Pearce's assessment of the situation and leading the conversation to other matters.

That night, the picture returned to haunt his dreams and he woke, tossing and turning until dawn made it sensible to admit that there would be no more sleep. He sat by the window, watching the day lighten over London, wondering why he and others allowed vibrant young men to offer themselves for sacrifice in the name of king and country. It seemed so essential to defeat Napoleon until friends and lovers died in the process. He had voted in the House, so blithely, for more 'intelligence', having been told it was vital to Wellington's efforts. He shook off thoughts that were probably treasonous and rang for Matthews. If he was awake, his household should rise, too.

*****

The season wore on, dreary to Adam, all its bright stars missing. He seriously considered a retreat to the country, time spent with his son and heir, but further meditation told him he'd find boredom in the nursery within days and that he was tired neither of London nor of life. He knew all the men - and women - spending the obligatory months in town, and was attracted to none of them. But he could always hope. There was always the chance of a mysterious stranger. His lips quirked. A romantic meeting was unlikely but not impossible. He would see the season out.

He was less amused when he realised that Hermione's sister was pursuing him. He spent time and trouble avoiding her, and then more avoiding Harry Pearce, who seemed unable to understand why Adam was impervious to the charms of his intended's unattached daughter. Ruth was less inclined to blame him - she even confided that she couldn't think why any man of sense would put up with Joanna.

"For it's not as if there's money, you know," she admitted to Adam, with a sigh. Adam reassured her with some comment about young bloods and a pretty face and how they should not look at old men like himself as possible suitors for the chit.

"Not so old," Ruth chided him. "Why, you're young enough to be my son, and even I am going to the masked ball at Ranelagh on Saturday. With Harry, of course," she added quickly, not wishing to give any hint of less than acceptable behaviour. "Do tell me you'll be there, Carteret! I shall be looking for you! And I can tell you now to avoid the blue domino - Joanna loves blue, you know!"

Adam smiled and said something suave and indefinite. Later, unable to sleep, he thought again. He could hardly hope for romance if he avoided all potentially romantic situations. He would attend the ball. That decided, he let his mind wander. Draco's alabaster limbs gave way to Raf's tanned skin and athletic movements. Adam groaned. He used his hand to pleasure himself, thinking all the time of first one and then the other lover. Draco had been, he had thought, a fixture in his life, and Raf an evening's glory, but the two figures merged in his imagination to form a tantalising vision that brought him to a climax but left him frustrated at the same time. He slept at last, and dreamed of dark eyes and a voice murmuring endearments in good but accented English. And woke to an empty bed.

*****

Saturday evening saw the Earl of Carteret step out of his house swinging a gold domino from his fingers. He was wearing a completely new outfit of old-gold jacket, beige knee breeches and brown boots polished to a high gleam. The frills of his white cravat tumbled over the lapels of the jacket in carefully arranged foam and his fair hair, tied back with a gold ribbon, was powdered to a snowy whiteness. He looked like a gentleman of his father's generation, something from a time before the present days of death and war. The only thing that provided a clue to his identity was the huge signet ring on his left hand, and his cane.

Pearce and Lady Evershed were there before him, Ruth sipping a glass of ratafia and Harry nursing a balloon of brandy. Both fondly supposed their small dominos disguised their identities but Adam was soon at their side, civilly asking after their health, and that of the younger set. Hermione, brilliant with feathers in her piled hair, was dancing with her betrothed, whose freckles escaped beneath his domino, giving him away to the most casual glance. Joanna sat tapping her foot, and the pencil of her dance card, her blue mask doing little to rescue her expression from petulance.

A large man dressed as a devil, complete with horns and tail, addressed Adam in familiar tones. Julian Siviter was enjoying himself. He pointed out a number of society beauties and a greater number of the demi-monde, alluring in their finery and offering uncomplicated solace. Adam was tempted, but since Fiona, he had never wanted a woman. It wasn't that he thought he never would; more that he would have to be attracted to a personality as well as a pretty face. Meanwhile, his liking for men was also affected by his need to have Draco or Raf. He watched the dancers, wondering which of the two men he would choose, should they both by some miracle be placed before him. It was an impossible choice, but he thought perhaps the army officer. The mystery, coupled with maturity and a breadth of sexual experience, might tip the balance. He shivered slightly, recalling strong hands on his hips, his arse. Then he moved quickly to avoid a matron determined to fill her daughter's card.

The evening was a riot of unusual behaviour. Masks gave a semblance of anonymity and allowed for the casting off of inhibitions. Lady and servant, lord and street girl, devil and highwayman, milkmaid and shepherdess; all danced with each other in a controlled orgy that simulated abandon but was actually an orchestrated relief from the constraints of Society. If some of the couples withdrew to the shadows of the gardens, no-one was heard to criticise.

Adam was whirled into the throng by a variety of revellers. He danced with a simpering miss in a pink domino, with a madam tricked out in figured satin and a mask of peacock feathers, with a monk who kicked up his heels showing hairy calves, and once with a devil who spoke in Julian's voice and asked how he was enjoying himself. He made some answer and excused himself. Soon, he was lost again in the crowd. Then he saw, with some amusement, an image from his daydreams.

The man was dressed completely in black, an impressive figure with a mask that covered all but his lips, which were full and soft but with a hint of arrogance. His black hair, apparently his own and unpowdered, was tied with a broad black ribbon. A black hat swung from negligent fingers, a black cravat bubbled up to hide his throat, and black boots gleamed with a polish that spoke of champagne, secret recipes and hours of buffing. The earl was tempted to approach the mysterious stranger but before he could move, the man was at his side. A sweeping bow and an amused voice enquired if he was the ghost of masquerades past. Adam laughed and agreed he had tried to create an air of long-gone perfection. Who did he have the honour to.....?

"L'Inconnu, of course." The amusement deepened. The the man in black held out his hand and beckoned Adam into the dance. A set was forming and they joined it, whirling around the others, occasionally passing each other and smiling in acknowledgement, but mostly concentrating on the steps and the pattern. Nobody gave them so much as a second glance. Tonight was for strange couplings and a respite from the norm. They could be any gender, any class, anyone. No-one would care.

There were lanterns in the garden walks, but there were dark corners, too. L'Inconnu moved to the doors and went outside, his whole carriage showing his assurance that Adam would follow him. He was right. Something about his unknown partner intrigued the earl, not least the way the disguise fed his dreams of a mysterious, romantic stranger. He wondered whether one of his friends was taunting him but dismissed the idea. He had already identified his closer circle, except, of course, those who were in a different part of the world. The lanterns swung in the slight breeze sending glimmering lights across the broad swathe of black coat ahead of him. Someone with a gift similar to Draco's had set the lanterns sparking lazily in the warm night and tiny drifts of fire petals floated up towards the moon. By their light, moths danced, their own ballet courting death whilst adding to the delight of the onlookers.

They reached a stand of bushes, juniper, Adam thought, and L'Inconnu turned suddenly and pulled his companion into their shade. Fierce hands took Adam's chin and tilted his face for a kiss. He hesitated, then gave himself to the excitement of the moment. This was a masquerade - he could not be held responsible for falling under its spell. He let his cane drop to the ground and put up his own hands to grasp the shoulders of this bold stranger. He returned the kiss, something about it teasing the back of his mind as well as his mouth, but pushed into the background as he savoured warm lips and tongue and felt a hand fall to his waist. He was hard, wanting more than kisses, half aroused, half ashamed of being such an easy conquest. The hand found his erection, through the fabric of his breeches, and he gasped. He had not expected such pleasure tonight, or any night soon.

Before long they were both dishevelled, their garments undone so as to reach each other more easily, and a tiny portion of Adam's brain thanked the Lords of Misrule that this was one of the darker areas of the garden. L'Inconnu was kneeling at his feet, that beautiful mouth busy with his cock, and waves of exquisite pleasure rolled over him. When he came, he thought the fountain of his seed would never stop, and all the while the stranger kept his mouth fastened in place and swallowed, moaning slightly as if unable to suppress his delight.

Panting, he fell into strong arms as L'Inconnu rose and straightened, holding him in a close embrace. He wanted to return the pleasure, but wasn't sure, suddenly diffident, then felt the warm wetness of the other's crotch against his searching hand. His own climax had invited a response, it seemed. They stood quite still for several moments, luxuriating in the closeness. Adam debated with himself what to do next. Would he be a candidate for the Bethlehem hospital if he invited a total stranger home? Although, he was no longer exactly a stranger. Would they even be compatible in the sensible light of day? Could he hope? Or was this just a temporary aberration, a trick of the night's magic?

He cleared his throat but couldn't make words come. His partner was kissing him again, tiny nibbling kisses that covered his whole face. His domino was somewhere on the ground alongside his cane; he was unmasked before midnight and found himself glad of it. But still, what should he say, or do? Tentatively, he managed to proffer a garbled invitation to leave the revelry, to return to his house. Would his companion accept?

"But of course! Much as I would like to, I cannot fuck you adequately here in the bushes. Your bedroom is a much more comfortable option!" Adam melted, dizzy with anticipation and moved away to adjust his clothing. He found cane and domino and turned to take L'Inconnu's hand in his. A few of the lantern sparks fizzed into the juniper and briefly lit the face before him. The black domino was removed and Adam drew his breath in sharply.

"My Adam. Did you not know me? Are you telling me you behaved like this with one you thought a stranger?" The English and the accent had both improved.

"I... I...." What to say? That his body had recognised what his brain had not? That he had been so aroused by his dreams, triggered by this face, this body, that he had sought release...? "I wanted you." It was all he could say and it seemed to be enough because he was enfolded in a crushing embrace. When he could breathe again he went on, "I thought you were gone. For ever. I couldn't believe... I thought it was a spell...." And he was crushed again.

They talked a little on their way back to the house, of how Raf had escaped the French and fled, how he had arrived in London and found Adam already out, at the ball. Of how Jules had lent him the domino and taken him to the venue. Of how he had sworn Jules to secrecy, determined to surprise Adam. They spoke of Daniel and the friendship that had led him to sacrifice himself.

"I think it was for both of us," Raf mused.

"But we only had one night."

"A night I couldn't stop talking about." Adam felt ashamed in earnest now. He confessed his affair with Draco but Rafaelão laughed.

"I knew! I wished you well! But I thought I could win you back when I came to London."

"You could. You have. You always could have done. But is this to be just one night again? Another hurried visit with military secrets too desperate to commit to paper? Because Raf, I don't think..."

"Hush. Don't think at all. I'm here to stay. I'm no more use to them; my face is known. I've been permitted to resign my commission with the Portuguese army and my secret role with the British one. There's safety in England. In more ways than one." They had reached the top of the steps and Adam raised the knocker and let it fall. Dursley opened the door. He had sent the footman to bed, having caught the youngster half asleep in the hall. Could he bring the gentlemen a drink? Adam ordered brandy and then dismissed the man.

They carried their glasses upstairs and entered the bedroom. The servants had not turned a hair when Draco had all but moved in; they would not inform on Adam and Raf. Whilst it had not been his intent to bribe them into loyalty, Adam was glad he had won their affection. He blew softly on the candles that stood on all the furniture in the room other than the bed, and they lit at his command, the flames a rainbow of different colours, throwing warm reflections on Raf and presumably on himself. A mixture of spiced scents rose lazily into the air. Raf smiled.

"You English aristocracy and your magic!"

"You don't have our gifts?"

"Come, let me show you Portuguese magic! See if you think it is worthy of your respect!"

They undressed each other slowly, almost reverently, bestowing kisses on each newly revealed expanse of skin till Adam's whole being sang with arousal and he thought he would die of wanting. Raf was unblemished; there were no scars or bruises. Adam allowed himself a tiny sigh of relief. There was oil in a small pot beside the bed, liquid rainbow this time, that swirled its colours on Raf's fingers; fingers which invaded and twisted and prepared... When Raf entered him, Adam felt as if he was completed. This was not the efficient army officer. This was not the hurried and amused adventurer. This was his lover, his beloved, and all was well. And yet - two nights? Was that a sufficient foundation for this feeling of permanence?

"You liked my magic?" Raf was grinning. Adam nodded, too happy to talk. Perhaps it was too early to speak of permanence but he was certainly going to try for it, and he thought Raf was, too. He ran his hands over smooth brown skin and through dark hair. His fingers traced an aquiline nose and full lips. His tongue tasted sunshine and sweet oranges in the hollows of Raf's throat

"If that was your magic, I liked it very much," he said.

"In that case, just lie still," Raf said, "And let me bewitch you all over again." So he did.

This time, Raf straddled Adam' hips and used his fingertips to spell his lover to new arousal. Then he poured a little of the oil into cupped palms and let it trickle out slowly, turning the cock beneath him into a riot of moving colour that flowed and swelled with the growing erection. Raf used his still-oiled fingers on himself, gazing into Adam's eyes as he did so. Then he slowly impaled himself until there was no further to go; the two were joined together without space, except for the slick of lubricant. Raf rode his new steed, an intrepid horseman schooling a mount to peak performance. As Adam came, with a last desperate thrust, Raf came too. Adam realised that even while he was the invader, he was the subject. With Draco, he had always been the dominant partner. Now, he was... He wasn't sure. Not submissive. Perhaps equal? Whatever it was, he liked it. And Raf was lying on top of him, boneless and trembling, . He wrapped his arms around him, content.

Then he blew softly, an air-kiss that doused the candles and settled the lid on the oil-pot with a tiny rattle. In the warm darkness, they slept.

*****

He was dreaming. Fiona, shadowy but gentle, pushed him away, a finger on her lips. Daniel, friend but never lover, receded, the colours of his coat merging with the clouds of a sunset. Jules, fancied but never fucked, flickered across the dream, discarding devil-horns and a black mask as he exited, left. Draco, blond, delicate, peered from between stems of sugar cane, his eyes mirroring a tropical sky then Tom Quinn called him away. The painted whores of the city capered momentarily then vanished. Everything was gone and from somewhere, he heard a honey-soft voice calling him. As is the way in dreams, he could not tell where the sound originated. He wanted the voice, more than he had ever wanted anything in his life; strained to find it...

... woke, with Raf's head on the pillow beside him, and all was well.


End file.
